#f1fanfic

Hey, 𝒜𝓁𝒶𝓇𝓌𝓎𝓃𝓃𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓈!!!

While proofreading some of my older Lando Norris fanfictions, I ended up scrolling through my writing folders and realized just how many stories are still sitting there unposted and unproofread. Some of these documents have literally been waiting since last year.

And it got me thinking... (Ohh La La Thinking?? HAHAHAHA)

Not all of my stories actually revolve around Lando. There are stories for other drivers too like Lewis, Kimi, and a few others (Like Cheng from Karate Kid or Sanemi HAHAHAHAHA). But I rarely post them because I've always felt like Tumblr mostly comes for the Lando content. So naturally, that's where most of my attention ended up going.

Meanwhile, these other stories have just been quietly existing in my folders, waiting for their turn to be seen T^T.

So now I'm curious...

Would any of you be interested if I started posting some of my non-Lando stories too? HEHEHEHEHEHE

Because apparently I've been gatekeeping my own writing from all of you for months (some for over a year at this point 💀 HAHAHAHAHA).

there are some people you think will stay in your life forever.

and then there’s max verstappen.

Pairing: Sbeastian Vettel x Alonsoson!motogprider!reader

Warnings: Implicatios of homophobia/forced coming out, age gap (15 years)

FC: Valentino Rossi

A/N: I tried to follow the actual 2022 schedule but at some point I changed it so things could match up better. This is vv messy with time lines and pace and I'm sorry about that, this is my first smau, my first time writing for Vettel AND my first x reader, so I'm sorry for any mistakes. I'm still trying to get how to find images, so some aren't the best, sorry. I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Title: The Saturday King

The garage smells of hot rubber and ambition. George pulls his helmet over his curls, exhales slowly, and closes his eyes.

One lap.

Silver arrows don't forgive mistakes. But George isn't here to be forgiven. He's here to prove that a boy from King's Lynn can outdrive a seven-time world champion. At least on Saturday.

The steering wheel vibrates in his hands. Turn 1 – brake late, trust the rear. Turn 3 – kiss the kerb like it's a trophy. By Turn 9, his heartbeat is a metronome counting down to P2.

When he climbs out of the cockpit, Toto Wolff pats his shoulder. "Good job, George."

George just nods. He doesn't say: "Good isn't enough. I want the red flag, the pole position, the victory that tastes like champagne and revenge."

Here it is, anon! 💖 My first ever x reader. Thank you so much for the prompt <3

Mika Häkkinen x Reader

The steadily beeping sound of the heart rate monitor woke you up and brought you back to the harsh reality. White walls, waxed floors, the smell of desinfectant. Despite having been here for a couple of days now, you still couldn't get used to it. The buzzing monotome sounds of the machines monitoring Mika's organs, the frantic footsteps of nurses in the hallway of the intensive care unit. Everything pulled you from your sleep.

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ / ᴜɴʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ

ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ / ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɪʟʟɴᴇꜱꜱ, ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀʀᴅɪᴀᴄ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ᴍᴏɴɪᴛᴏʀɪɴɢ

ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴜᴘ / ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄɪɴɢ / ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɴᴜᴍʙɴᴇꜱꜱ

ᴛᴀʙʟᴏɪᴅ/ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀꜱ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴘᴀɪɴ

ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ʙʟᴀᴍᴇ & ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟɪᴢᴇᴅ ɢᴜɪʟᴛ

ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ “ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ᴏɴ” ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ

The world didn’t stop for heartbreak. It never paused, never blinked, never waited. It just kept spinning—fast, indifferent, unforgiving.

After the awkward reunion at Madam Cho’s atelier, Lando buried himself back into routine. Interviews, simulator runs, marketing campaigns, strategy meetings—everything blurred into a continuous loop of forward motion. He never looked back.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

The team noticed the change, of course. Zak did too. Lando had become quieter, his sarcasm dulled at the edges, the usual glimmer in his eyes slightly dimmed. He wasn’t angry, wasn’t cold—just distant. As though something important had been misplaced, and he hadn’t bothered to find it.

Which is why, one day after a particularly grueling PR shoot, Zak approached him with an innocent-enough proposal.

“There’s a dinner this weekend,” he said, casually flicking through his iPad. “Private, mostly sponsors, nothing too flashy. You should go.”

Lando barely looked up from his water bottle. “I don’t need another dinner.”

“You need a distraction,” Zak countered, sharp-eyed. “And Sofia will be there. She’s the daughter of that Monaco investor we’ve been working with.”

The name didn’t ring a bell, but Zak pressed on. “She’s charming. Smart. And I’ve seen how she looks at you. Maybe give it a shot.”

Lando didn’t answer at first. He hated being managed like a broken machine—patched up and repurposed with no regard for what was truly malfunctioning. But a part of him, tired and heavy, gave in.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll go.”

The dinner was held at a coastal villa outside of Nice. The wine flowed, the lights flickered like stars in glass, and music hovered in the background like polite conversation. Sofia was beautiful—graceful, polished, perfectly articulate in three languages. She laughed at his dry humor, asked about the car setups, complimented his performance in Monaco.

And Lando tried. He smiled at the right moments, responded when asked, even walked her to her car at the end of the night. When she leaned in to kiss his cheek, he let her. He didn’t pull away.

Maybe this was what moving on looked like.

Maybe he could rewire the grief into something useful.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

Back in London, (Y/n) Hwang was still learning how to breathe again.

Two weeks post-hospitalization, she was back in her flat above Madam Cho’s atelier, tucked beneath warm blankets and stricter medication schedules. The specialists had been firm—no late nights, limited screen time, reduced stress, and full commitment to her cardiac regimen. Her heart was more delicate than they initially thought.

And still, it beat.

Just not without cost.

The silence between her and Lando stretched longer than any stitch she’d ever sewn. It was thick now, frayed at the ends, impossible to ignore. Her phone remained untouched on the nightstand, unanswered messages left to die in the digital ether.

She had almost texted him once—just to say she was alive, that she hadn’t meant to vanish. But something in her couldn’t. Pride, perhaps. Or fear.

Then one evening, as she sat by the window sketching out a spring collection, Madam Cho walked in quietly.

The older woman didn’t speak at first. Just put down a lot of folded magazines on the table, the kind kept at salon lounges.

(Y/n) glanced down.

And froze.

A full-page photo captured Lando mid-laugh, seated beside a woman with pale blonde hair and eyes like polished stones. Her hand rested casually on his wrist. The caption was simple enough: Lando Norris attends private gala with Monaco heiress Sofia Méricourt.

There was no need to read the article. The photo was enough.

Her pencil slipped from her hand.

Something fractured quietly inside her, the pain instant and precise, like a hairline crack along porcelain. It didn’t scream. It whispered.

She stood up slowly, the magazine still in hand. Her chest hurt—not from the disease, but from the realization that she had finally been left behind.

She didn’t cry.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she walked to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter.

“I’m glad,” she whispered aloud, to no one. “I’m glad he found someone. Someone who doesn’t break down. Someone healthy.”

Her voice was thin.

But she repeated it.

“I’m glad.”

Madam Cho stepped into the kitchen quietly, resting a hand on her shoulder. The gesture was maternal, steady, no questions asked.

“You shouldn’t have read those magazines darling,” she murmured.

(Y/n) let out a hollow chuckle. “I didn’t. The headlines found me.”

They stood there for a moment, the soft hum of the refrigerator filling the silence.

Then (Y/n) squared her shoulders and said, more to herself than anyone, “That’s what he deserves. Someone who won’t vanish. Someone who doesn’t leave him guessing.”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.

She simply took her sketchpad, walked back to her room, and closed the door gently behind her.

And outside, London rain began to fall.

To be continued...🧡

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 9: ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ʀᴏᴏᴍ🛏️

Summary:

A chaotic F1 group chat confession spirals out of control, prompting Max to impulsively fly across the world to confront Daniel about their feelings.

Daniel sat on the edge of his bed, phone clutched in his hand, still chuckling from the chaos that had unfolded in the driver group chat. Lando and Pierre had somehow decided that Max and Daniel’s friendship or, as they were now calling it, “definitely something more” was the perfect source of entertainment.

F1 Drivers Group Chat

Lando: GUYS. I think I’ve solved the greatest mystery of F1 history.

Pierre: oh no… what now?

Lando: I’ve been seeing… a LOT of Maxiel edits, fanfics, memes… and honestly… I think Daniel and Max dated. Or were in love.

Daniel: 🤨 Lando. Please.

Lando: WAIT hear me out. During their teammate days, Daniel was too extra about Max on and off track. And Max… well, the smiles, the gestures, the way he never said no to Daniel’s stupid pranks… IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW.

Pierre: 😳 lmao are you saying… like… canon Maxiel?

Daniel: Guys. Stop. I don’t want to know how many of you are making fanfics about me and Max.

Sebastian: sips tea I… am intrigued.

Charles: lol I mean it wouldn’t surprise me. Daniel’s entire vibe screamed “in love with my teammate.”

Daniel: CHARLES. 😡

Pierre: but think about it… remember that Monza race when Daniel almost ran over Max trying to “help” him on track? That wasn’t help… that was… something else.

Daniel: 🙄 Pierre.

Valtteri: I mean… I saw them hugging after every podium like it was a secret ritual or something.

Lando: EXACTLY! Even Toto was confused, I bet.

Carlos: I mean… I shipped it in secret, not gonna lie.

Daniel: Carlos! You too???

Daniel: 😭 You guys are insane. I never told any of you.

Sebastian: Not even me. I respect the secrecy, Daniel. But yes, the signs were there.

Pierre: Guys… someone needs to check Max’s Instagram likes from back then. It’s 100% proof.

Lando: omg Pierre. you’re a genius. I bet Max’s feed is just… Daniel posts from 2016… liked repeatedly… 😏

Daniel: PLEASE. Stop. I beg you.

Kimi: …huh. Never noticed. But okay.

Daniel: Kimi. You’re supposed to be silent. Not judging.

Charles: This is peak F1 chaos. I can’t.

Pierre: WAIT WAIT WAIT. I just remembered the Barcelona test day. Daniel spilled coffee on Max… ON PURPOSE… just to help him “warm up” 🤯

Lando: YES YES YES. The subtle flirting!

Daniel: Flirting? That was CLUMSINESS. PURE. CLUMSINESS.

Carlos: Sure, sure. We all saw the way you hovered over Max. Every. Single. Race.

Daniel: YOU DID???

Sebastian: Obviously. I’m watching from the pit wall, mate. You were radiating… emotions.

Pierre: lol imagine Daniel trying to hide his feelings like a spy. Mission failed.

Daniel: 😭 I did not spy on Max. I… I… cared. Yes. But not like… romantic… maybe… 😅

Lando: maybe? Daniel. It was MAXIEL LEVEL OBVIOUS.

Charles: Wait wait wait. The fanfics aren’t just fanfics anymore. This is history rewriting itself.

Daniel: CHARLES. You are the worst.

Pierre: Daniel, you’re literally blushing through the phone right now. Admit it.

Daniel: I AM NOT.

Sebastian: …you are.

Daniel: FINE. I… might have… liked Max. quietly whispers a lot.

Lando: YES. Finally. Truth bomb.

Carlos: Sooo… when did this happen? During teammate days? Or now?

Daniel: SHUT UP.

Pierre: lol imagine Max reading this right now. 😏

Daniel: STOP TALKING ABOUT MAX.

Sebastian: I mean… we all know he’s going to see this eventually. So… maybe just embrace it.

Lando: Daniel, if Max sees this… what would you do?

Daniel: I… I… don’t know. Pretend I was joking?

Pierre: lol Daniel pretending to joke is peak comedy.

Daniel: I am joking, Pierre!!! Its just a prank guys. I AM KIDDING

Charles: This is so messy. I love it.

Daniel: YOU ALL ARE THE WORST.

Lando: ❤️ But also… we are the truth-tellers of F1. You owe us a story now.

Daniel: 😭 I hate you all.

Lando: Love you too. 😏

He laughed nervously, thinking how ridiculous it was to confess in a group chat of prank-happy drivers. He didn’t notice the silence that followed or that Max hadn’t responded at all.

“Whatever,” Daniel muttered. “He’s asleep. Probably tired from Monza GP.” He tossed the phone onto the bed and collapsed under the covers, completely oblivious to the fact that somewhere across the globe, Max was reading every word, heart hammering.

….

Max sat on the couch in his hotel room, phone in hand, scrolling the group chat again. He had read it once, twice, and now a third time. Lando, Pierre, Carlos, Sebastian… even Charles. Every single one of them teasing Daniel, dissecting his “feelings,” and somehow confirming what Max had always suspected.

Daniel… likes me.

The thought had been swimming in the back of Max’s mind for months. During races, interviews, team events...he’d caught those fleeting looks, those moments when Daniel’s attention lingered a little too long, the way he always had Daniel’s back. But seeing it all laid out like this… in such an absurdly blunt way… it was undeniable.

And then that one line from Daniel…

“…maybe… for fun? I’m kinda… in love with him 😬”

Max’s stomach tightened. For fun? Or… real?

He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t sit here, scrolling endlessly, second-guessing himself. Every moment he hesitated felt like it was slipping away. The F1 calendar, the press, the logistics...it didn’t matter. Daniel needed to hear the truth. Now.

Max’s fingers moved almost of their own accord, pulling up flights, checking schedules. He was barely thinking about the exhaustion, the time difference, the jet lag. His mind was singularly focused on Daniel.

“Now or never,” he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the hotel room air conditioning.

He booked the first available flight to Australia. Minutes later, he was sprinting to catch a cab, racing against the clock. Every second that passed made his decision feel more urgent. Max couldn’t explain it fully...maybe it was obsession, maybe it was instinct, maybe it was something he had ignored for too long...but he knew one thing: if he didn’t confront Daniel now, he might never get the chance.

By the time the plane doors closed behind him, Max’s mind had calmed into a single clarity. He had a mission. He was going to Melbourne, and he was going to find Daniel. And he wasn’t leaving without answers.

Daniel, I’m coming. And you’re going to tell me the truth.

……

The next morning, Daniel was barely awake, his hair sticking up in every direction, when the doorbell rang. Groaning, he swung open the door, only to freeze mid-step.

Max. Max Verstappen. Standing on his doorstep, windblown hair, racing jacket zipped up, and eyes that were unreadable but intense.

“Max?” Daniel croaked. “What… what are you doing here? You were in Monza last night!”

Max didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. He simply crossed his arms, his gaze unwavering.

“Was what you said in the group chat… about being in love with me… real?”

Daniel’s brain short-circuited. For a full five seconds, he just stared. Then he burst out laughing. “Wait, are you… did you… fly here? You actually came to Melbourne because of a chat message?”

Max’s jaw tightened. “I needed to know. I couldn’t ignore it. You can’t just say something like that and leave me hanging.”

Daniel felt his chest tighten, a mix of disbelief, embarrassment, and… something else. Something dangerously close to hope.

“Well,” he said, voice unsteady, “I… I was half-joking. Sort of. But also...” He stopped, realizing just how seriously he sounded. “Okay, I wasn’t joking. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. But yes. I like you. A lot.”

Max’s expression softened, just slightly, and he stepped forward. “A lot?”

Daniel swallowed hard, heart hammering like it was on the starting grid. “Yes… I mean, yeah. I didn’t think you felt the same. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in the chat, or...”

“Daniel,” Max interrupted, voice low but steady, “I don’t care about embarrassment. I care about you.”

Daniel blinked, shocked. Max was standing so close now, warm and real, and for a moment, the world felt impossibly small.

“You… flew here. Just to hear me say that?” Daniel whispered.

Max nodded. “I didn’t want to wait for the next race, the next chat, the next stupid comment from Lando. I wanted to know now. Are you really in love with me, Daniel?”

“I… yes,” Daniel admitted, breath hitching. “I’ve liked you for so long. And I didn’t want to admit it, not here, not there...” He gestured vaguely at the group chat. “But… I can’t hide it anymore.”

Max’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Good. Because I feel the same way.”

Daniel’s heart nearly stopped. “You… do?”

Max’s hand brushed against his, tentative at first, then firmer as if to anchor himself. “I’ve been waiting for you to say it. And now you have.”

Daniel laughed, nervous and joyous. “You mean… all this time, we were… secretly… this close?”

Max shrugged, a mischievous glint finally appearing. “Seems like it. But now we can stop hiding behind jokes and rumors. We can… be us.”

Daniel felt like the world had been flipped upside down in the best possible way. “So… what now?”

Max leaned in slightly, close enough that Daniel could feel the heat radiating off him. “Now,” Max whispered, “we figure it out. Together.”

And Daniel, heart racing faster than any F1 car he’d ever driven, nodded. “Together.”

Max grinned, just a little, and in the quiet Melbourne morning, Daniel finally realized that all the jokes, the chaos, and the silly group chat rumors had led to this exact moment.

The moment they were finally honest with each other and with themselves.

And somehow, Daniel knew this was only the beginning.

....

FOR MORE FICS OF MINE VISIT: https://riavolkov.stck.me/

4 times the PR team panicked + 1 time they gave up - carlos poly

Our boyfriend is a Vampire? - Carlos poly

Spanish for dummies - Carlos poly

My Neighbor Hates Me: So Why’s He Bringing Me Soup? - Versainz